


Munera

by E350tb



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Death Threats, Gen, Gladiators, Lars Just Straight Up Isn't Having A Good Time, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E350tb/pseuds/E350tb
Summary: Lars is shot down over an alien planet and captured by it's alien-hating colonisers. Unfortunately, it only gets worse from there.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. I: Out of the Frying Pan

**Author's Note:**

> Everybody blame loveluckylost. I read her phenomenal Counting Down, and now I'm gonna engage in some Mutually Assured Devastation (of Lars.)
> 
> Thanks as always to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading!

The first thing Lars felt was pain.

His eyelids squeezed shut as terrible, searing agony ran through his head. It was like someone had taken a jackhammer to his skull, producing a crack that ran down to the base of his spine. A wave of nausea rocked his stomach; he couldn’t breath. He couldn’t hear anything, save for a loud ringing.

He opened his eyes and saw nothing but awful, stinging light - instantly his stomach jolted and he wretched, feeling the acidic tang in his throat as the pungent slime slipped out, pooling on the ground next to his face. He was lying on his side; he could tell that much. He grasped out with his hand, and suddenly pressed down on something jagged and sharp.

“ _Aaagh!_ ”

He jolted up - a mistake, as the object dug deeper into his flesh. Tears built up as he tumbled onto his rear, the searing light in his eyes and the deafening ringing in his ears finally starting to fade.

He was in a clearing, beneath a pale green sky. Around him was twisted wreckage and debris, teal-green and gold, and the remains of complex machinery and consoles. He could smell wet mud and smoke, and feel the sweltering humidity in the air - wherever he was was tropical. Sickly brown-green trees and bushes surrounded the clearing on all sides, and he could hear animalistic screeching on the wind.

What had happened? He couldn’t remember.

He looked down at his hand and was almost sick again. A jagged lump of metal - by the looks of it, from the back of his captain’s chair - had dug into his palm, and pinkish blood was oozing from the side of the wound. He grabbed it with his other hand and tugged; something he instantly regretted as terrible pain filled him again, and he coughed out a little more sick.

“Flu… Fluorite?” he called out, his voice croaking and raspy. “R-Rhodonite? Paddy? Twins?”

There was no answer.

He staggered to his feet, rubbing his head with his unwounded hand - a wave of dizziness overcame him, and he nearly toppled over again. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.

“I need… need comms,” he muttered. “Gotta tell someone I’m…”

He stepped forward and felt something hard beneath his boot. Stopping just in time to avoid breaking it, he stepped back and looked down. A little orange gemstone sat in the mud, a hairline crack running right across it.

“Paddy?!” Lars knelt down, picking the gem up. “Oh no no no, I can’t-I can’t heal a crack, I…”

He shook his head. _Keep it together, Lars._

Standing up, Lars clutched Padparadscha’s gem tight, glancing around for the rest of the crew. There was still no sign of them, and he hoped beyond hope that they’d simply gone to get help. Yeah, that was it, he thought; they’d be back with Steven or the Diamonds soon, and he’d be fine, and-

“ _AAAAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRROOOOOO!_ ”

An unearthly screech filled the air, and Lars froze.

He could hear scurrying in the surrounding jungle, the sound of legs on muddy soil getting closer and closer. He glanced around frantically - where was that coming from? Was it friendly? If not, how would he defend himself? He tried to listen - it sounded like it was coming from…

It burst into the clearing from the north, and Lars screamed.

It’s body resembled a grub, dark brown, affixed to six bony legs. It’s eyes protruded from a pair of stalks on each side, leaving ample room for the gaping maw, lined with teeth. It was about the size of a bear, and from the way it pounced at Lars, it was just as aggressive.

Lars jolted back, holding out his free, wounded arm by instinct - a reflex trained of offering strange dogs a hand to sniff to calm them down. Instead, it gave the grub an opening, and he took it in his mouth, biting down hard just above the elbow.

“ _Augh! F-fuck!_ ” Lars screamed.

He pulled back hard, but the grub wouldn’t let go - it bit down harder, ripping skin away as it tried to bite off it’s meal. Lars fell painfully backwards, and the grub stomped hard on his chest as it grew closer.

Now he could smell it - the only way he could describe the stench of its breath was fowl, like that of a thousand rotting corpses. It’s hot, wet drool sprayed on his face, and as it moved he could see into its mouth - the rows of yellowed teeth, the tongue flapping about, the eyes swinging about as it attacked its prey.

Was this it, he thought? Was this the last thing he would ever see?

_BANG BANG. BANG BANG. BANG BANG._

A series of shots, loud and guttural, rang out.

The grub let go of Lars’ hand, squealing an almost pitiful yelp as the bright green glows of tracer - or at least, that’s what he assumed it was - sailed through the sky above it. It spun around, darting back off into the forest, shots rattling off after it.

As it disappeared, Lars looked at his ravaged arm. The piece of metal was still wedged in his hand, and his sleeve and glove had been torn to ribbons. Worse still were the oozing wounds that ran down his skin, long cuts and deep bites smothered in warm blood.

He began to feel very faint.

Boots trudged on mud, and for the briefest moment he saw his three saviors standing above him. They were tall and humanoid, clad in shining silver armour lit by orange lights, blank masks, orange visors and coal-scuttle helmets. Each of them carried a big, silver rifle, a cylinder full of green goop attached to the bottom-rear. To Lars, they looked like knights in shining armour.

“R̴͉͝o̷̸̙̱̮̠ͅo̷̟̼̞̝̦͎̖̼s̳̜̪̪̺k̶̗̰̖͖̕ ̸͙͍͔̙̝͟͠r̝̯̫̼̳̠u҉͕̼̱͔̥s͏͔̦̫̟̼͇͜y̵̗͎̞͉͕ ̢̝͚̙̘͓g̷͚͙͠y͝҉̮̪̭̺ͅ'̷̴̻͙̭͍̳͕̱͘h̷̺̟̗̯̠̘͟y̵̨̥̻̫͞ ̖͕̪̬͘w̙̤͘o҉̡̘̟̝̖͖j̗̺̯͇̯̠ ̷̯̲̱͕̯c̸̭̘̜̩̥̱̝̩̗ ͍͍͙̼r͍̥̭̳̭͟u̺̙̟̦̺̳̤͢͝h̹̬̜̱ͅy̵͇͙ ̰̫̻̘̫̥̩o̰̤̰̪͚̪̙̺p̴̸̟̱y͍̩̭̥̯͔,” said one, his voice deep and distorted.

“J̶̙̠̰͍̲ç̪̺̭̦̹s҉̵̪̝̯̩̱̟̥̦y̤̦̯̤͍̕͜ ҉͢͏̲̦v̝̝̗̱̘̣͍ͅu͖̥͍͍̭͞q͕̰̞̫͇ ̧̢̗͍̥̣̗͉͈͓j̞̣̪̣̳̗͇͝o͉̤̩̘̦͓̺͝ ͢͏͖̙j̗͖̺̩͇̼͓̩͞v̸͏̼̺͓̱̪̠̥͟ͅy̡̛̪̜͍̲̭̫ ͙̭̣͞R̛̭̪̟̭̲̺̯͈y̡͏̶̘͎̪̱w̴͉̩̥͎̤͠c̴͙͢j͇̗̬y̙̣͓̭͔,̘̕” said another, “Vy̮̙̰̩̙̫͈̞̕ͅ'̧̡̮̬͇̫͠r̨̜͔̙̳͕̩͍͘r̲̭̫͓̩̪̝͡ ̧̢̖͎̮̦̝͙̜̟͡g͉̗̬͕͞c͞҉̲̩̺͎p̮̱͔̺̼̞̲͠j̕͏͉̝̥̯ ̡͔̺̙͓͍͟j̶̻̼͖̦̗̹o͢҉͇͕̬͘ ̸͇̭͚̳̤͖y̢̝̝͉̗̦͉̗̖̝h̬̟̦̹̪͔c͇̠̪̮͖r̴̛͓̳̖̪̕i̷̞̤̹͉c͖̻͕͝j̠̙̭͇͟y҉̝̟̲̫̰͍͟͠ ̷̫̱v̴̶͓̝͓̹u̧̪̭̦̪͙͕̜͠q̘͔̙̫͎̥͖͡.̶̛̲̥̬̝͇͇̹͇ͅ ͔̼̼̟͉̹͕͡ͅ”

“...help…” Lars whimpered.

As his vision faded, he heard them keep talking as if he’d said nothing.

“G̶̷͈̭͎̥̯̜̙ͅy̜̼͔̭̫̲̻̮͕͟ ͏̯̭͇̯k͈̫̼̦͘͜v͇͖o̻͎̗̥̖̮͕ͅi҉̠͞ŗ̜͓̼̟͖͍͇͘ͅz̨͖̠͈ ̜͇͓͕͔̺̙͜ͅt҉̪̣̥̼̗͎̘̠̣i̧̘͉͙͚̺̣̯̖k̢͔̼̠̭̙̠̱j̙̤̝͙̟̙ ̝̥̺̝ͅş̢̱̼̳̻̭͝u͏̧̼̥̬̫̬͎͙r͏͇͍ͅr̨̥̞̭̫ ̖̩̙v̰͖̺̭̤̦u̹͔͢͠q̵̸͓̼͖̥͉͍̱̜̞̕,̢͈̠̣̖͟͝ͅ ̢̱̬̹̘̮͇̝j̶͔̯͈̞͎̭v̻̻͢y̜̟͙͢ ̬̰̻z̮͈̞̤͙͙͢͡u͏̸̳͖̤͎͚͇̱̺͡k͙̣̳̮̩̪͈̬͟w̴̸̡̖̦̩̘ͅͅḭ̮k̶̛̟̘͎̘j̷͈̺̥̤̤̗̠͜u̴̷͇͎͍̳͚p̵͈̥w̢̢̰̱̱͙̫̦̣̬ ̷̧̖̯͔̗̜̗̼͝c̸͖̳̤̗̕͠r̜̝͢u̟̤̘͈̼̖̱̹y̴̨̺͉̖̱̰̭̠͠ͅp̷̧̥͉̹͙̲͇͕ͅ.̰ ̸͖̦̹̳̟̠͚”

“P̥̼͔͓͠c͖̮̕v̨͈͉ͅ.̸̡̣ͅ ̧̞̟̩͚̹͢͠V͏̺y̶̳͓̲̼̳̜͖ ̴̯̺͍̠͠a͓̟͚o̬̘̦̰͎̫̹̻̕i͏̟̞̘̩r̨͚̭z̴̴̹̪͍͍ ̶̙͈̮̭͎͢͝q͕̻͔̖̙͚̕͟͠c̨̜̙̞͔̣̱̣͠͡s̮̼̻̘y̶̪͇̗͓̭͉̠ ̭̖̬̮̺̕c͈͓͙̣̤̫͢͝͠ ͔̣͓͎͡w̢̯̠̫̩̠̫̼͓o̰̱̤o͓̣͍̦z̶̷̮̫ ̶͎̙̤̻̥̠͔͙͇w̸̳̠͖̤ṛ̵̰͠c̴̗̺̣̦̤̘̫̫͜͝z̦̖̝̪͎̬̮͞͝u̘͇̼c͔͔͢j̵͍͕̺̗̻̺͚͜͡o̥͓͉̯̱̹͓l͏͇̝.̡̛̣͕͍̤̥͙”

Merciful darkness took him once more.

“...ah, _alien_ , it seems you’re coming to. Good.”

For the second time that day, Lars found himself slowly coming to.

The room was a bright, sterile white, and it smelled vaguely of disinfectant. He was lying on a slab, gazing up at the roof, and he felt something wrapped tight around his injured arm. He tried to move, but felt himself straining against constraints around his wrists, his ankles, his throat… 

“I suppose,” the voice - a deep, gravelly baritone - spoke up once more, “I had better introduce myself.”

Lars heard steps on a hard floor, and suddenly a tall, alien man was towering over him.

The first thing he noticed was his silvery eyes, slightly too large, and pretty, angular features. The man was perhaps seven feet tall, and his face was framed by long white hair; it was styled almost into a bowl shape at the top, with long bangs covering his ears and down to his chin. He wore a fine white uniform, tightly cut, with black shoulder pads marked with five golden stripes. His hands were covered with black gloves, and under his shoulder was tucked an ornate golden stick.

“Hey,” Lars said. “Y-you wanna let me out of…”

“Do not speak out of line,” said the man firmly. “This will be your only warning.”

Lars swallowed.

“My name,” continued the man, pacing around Lars’ slab, “is Legatus Aurelian Titus, Governor-General and Supreme Viceroy of the Munera System. I am the representative of the Velutarian Emperor’s supreme authority on this colony. Who, may I ask, do you think you are?”

“I-I’m Lars,” replied Lars, “c-captain of the _Sun Incinerator._ I-I’m from Earth, and I’d really like to go back there, if-”

“The _Sun Incinerator_ ,” mused Aurelian. “Is that the name of that little corvette our fighters blasted out of the sky?”

“Y… _you_ shot me-”

Aurelian whipped out his golden stick and prodded it into Lars’ side. It felt like a tazer had been fired at his stomach, digging it’s talons deep into his flesh - as the electricity ran through him, he screamed, screwing his eyes shut. It lasted for only a second, but it felt like an age.

Aurelian pulled his device back, and the pain stopped - Lars breathed heavily, feeling sweat run down his face.

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes we did. This Earth… is it a spacefaring civilisation?”

“N… no? I-I got this ship f-from Homeworld, I…”

“ _Homeworld?_ ” Aurelian sneered. “Once we have finished scanning what remains of your vessel’s computers, I will need to inform the Emperor of our new threat… or perhaps, _prize._ ”

He reached into his pocket, and Lars’ eyes widened as he pulled out Padparadscha’s gem.

“Is this precious to you, boy?”

“Padparadscha!” Lars strained against his constraints. “If you hurt her, I’m gonna- _AAAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHHH!!!_ ”

This time, Aurelian made sure to keep his device prodded against Lars for a good five seconds.

“I,” he said as he finally withdrew his stick, “would be more worried about the rest of your people. You had best hope this _Earth_ is a suitable colony for us, otherwise we may simply blast it into dust.”

Lars opened his mouth, intending to demand to know why he’d do that - Aurelian raised an eyebrow and his golden prod, and he quickly closed it.

“So this is a lifeform,” he said, looking down at Padparadscha’s gem in his hand. “A precious one, to you?”

“Y… yes,” replied Lars.

“Well then, I’ll give you a choice.”

He leaned down, face stopping uncomfortably close to Lars’.

“It is only half a solar cycle until the Emperor’s jubilee,” he said. “He will have reigned for twenty-five glorious years. To recognise this, the major sectors of the empire will be holding games to celebrate his health. It will be a lavish occasion - circuses, parades, beast hunts, and the most important of all…”

He smirked.

“...the _games_.”

Lars’ blood ran cold.

“G-games?”

“My champion fighter was recently, shall we say, _disemboweled_ ,” explained Aurelian. “When the final Great Game on the Emperor’s jubilee occurs, I don’t intend to be left bereft. So _you_ will replace her.”

“Y-you want me to be a gladiator?”

“Here is your choice, _captain_.” He spat the word right into Lars’ face. “You will fight. You will dedicate what little remains of your life to fighting for the honour of the Emperor and myself.”

Lars swallowed.

“A-and if I do, you’ll spare Earth? You- _AAAAAAAUUUUGGGH!_ ”

Aurelian held the device in place for a good ten seconds, twisting it as Lars screamed and writhed against his restraints. By the time he pulled out, tears were running down Lars’ cheeks.

“You are in no position to bargain,” said Aurelian. “Your planet is irrelevant, both to this discussion and to the cosmos at large.”

He looked back down at Padparadscha’s gem.

“You fight, or I grind your friend into dust so fine it will be imperceptible to Velutarian eyes,” he said. “Good deal?”

Lars swallowed, feeling his whole body shaking. As if to ram home the point, Aurelian’s fingers tightened around his friend’s gemstone.

 _He hasn’t found the others, right?_ _Maybe I can buy time…_

“D… deal,” he panted.

Aurelian grinned.

“Very good,” he replied. “Very good indeed.”

He turned around, tucking his hands behind his back.

“Guards,” he barked. “Get Justinian and prepare the ritual.”

As Lars heard the sound of boots marching off, Aurelian turned to him once more.

“I shouldn’t take such pleasure in this,” he oozed, “but I’m afraid it only gets worse from here.”


	2. II: Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lars is given an interesting new career opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors). You ought to read her stuff.

Two armoured soldiers marched down the corridor, roughly tugging Lars along by his shoulders. Aurelian strode ahead, hands tucked officiously behind his back. Everything smelt vaguely metallic, though Lars figured his nose might have been bleeding.

Before too long, they’d stepped through a pair of iron sliding doors and into a new room - this one was quite ornate, carpeted in royal red and with paneling that almost resembled oak. At the other end of the room were three enormous portraits - on the left was Aurelian, clad in a fine black uniform, an asteroid belt framing his upright, almost disdainful posture. On the right was a woman of his species, dressed in armour similar to the soldiers but sans a helmet, painted red, and with a flowing black cape behind her; she looked stately, regal, and yet utterly fierce, a pensive finger on her chin as she surveyed a bloody, ruined battlefield. In the middle was an old man in a bronze-gold uniform, sitting on a golden throne with both arms resting on the armrests, gazing down at the room below with practiced authority.

Aurelian bowed at the middle portrait, and Lars was quite forcefully made to do the same by his escorts. This, he supposed, was their emperor.

“Presenting His Imperial Majesty Octavian III Valerian, Divine Ruler of the Cosmos and of the Planet Koros in Particular.”

“It’s just a painting, dude,” muttered Lars.

His vision swam as one of the guards slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of his head. He fell face-first into the carpet and immediately tasted blood.

“Were I not intent on using you as a fighter,” spat Aurelian, “I’d have every one of your teeth plucked out for that remark. Even the image of the Emperor deserves respect.”

Lars swallowed as the guards tugged him back up. For the first time, he saw the little metal slab in the middle of the room - was this a blacksmith? Seemed a bit too decorated for one, he thought.

A door beneath the portrait of the Emperor opened, and another two guards marched in - in their arms they dragged an old man - similar to Aurelian, but very clearly weathered by time and stressed. He was covered in so many old wounds that Lars wondered if his face was made entirely of scar tissue. He had many missing teeth, and was pale and gaunt, but he still managed a glare at Aurelian as he was pulled in. He was wearing a ragged brown cloak, the lowered hood exposing his baldness, and underneath Lars could see fragments of what looked like leather armour.

“Justinian,” Aurelian said, almost jovially.

Justinian didn’t reply. Aurelian nodded, and the guards flung him to the floor - then he waited patiently as the old man lifted himself up. The elder man made sure never to break eye contact, his scowl darkening with each passing moment.

“You really must learn to let go, Justinian,” said Aurelian. “You have nothing left! Accept it!”

“I have my pride,” the man replied, his voice creaking with age.

“Debatable,” sniffed Aurelian. “Justinian, I’ve taken the liberty of bringing you a new gladiator to train. Hopefully you can make this one last a little longer, hmm?”

Justinian clenched his fists.

“You should find it fun, shouldn’t you?” continued Aurelian. “You do so _love_ aliens, don’t you?”

He turned to Lars - he seemed almost _pleased._

“Centurion, the brand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lars swallowed as one of the guards tapped his wrist - there was a bright blue glow, and a long, metal rod with a white-hot, glowing end appeared in his hand. He turned to hand it to Aurelian, but he shook his head and pointed at Justinian.

“The master,” he said, “must brand his charge.”

“I-is that a brand?! Like, for _cattle?_ ” exclaimed Lars, eyes widening.

Justinian took the brand, shaking his head.

“Does this make you feel big, Governor?” he asked. “Does it make up for the military glory you failed to achieve?”

One of the guards raised his rifle, but Aurelian guffawed, gesturing for him to lower it.

“Let the tired old fool rant,” he sneered. “Nobody is listening.”

Slowly, Justinian stepped forward - as he did so, the guards sprang to action, dragging Lars towards the slab. One tugged his forearm onto the cold metal surface, and he let out an involuntary whimper.

“No… no! Please, don’t!” he exclaimed. “I…”

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Justinian said, taking hold of his arm - his skin felt almost like sandpaper. “But if this is the worst thing that happens to you from here on out, you ought to consider yourself very lucky.”

“I-I’m not… I’m not his property!” shouted Lars. “Don’t do this! _Please! I have a family!_ ”

“They mean nothing, and you’d do well to forget them, boy,” sniffed Aurelian. “You belong to me; body and soul.”

“No! No, I take it back, I take it back, please! I…”

“Focus on my voice, boy.”

Justinian slowly pressed the brand into Lars’ skin. He screamed as the sudden, agonising burning sensation just about set his nerves on fire, tears streaming from his eyes. It felt like his heart had been electrified, each ratcheting beat painful as blood rushed to his searing flesh. He couldn’t even tell if his lungs were working, air feeling impossibly thin and causing his skin to flash hot-cold as tremors of sweat racked his thin frame. 

“One… two… three…”

Lars clenched his fist, sweat pouring down his face, screaming and screeching as the brand burned him deeper. Aurelian didn’t react, his face set in a smug smile and his hands tucked behind his back.

“Four… five… six…”

“ _Stop! Please!_ ” Lars closed his eyes, body shaking with sobs. His life seemed to flash before his eyes. He saw his crew, Sadie, the Big Donut, Steven and the Gems, Ronaldo, his parents… 

“Seven… eight…”

“Mom… dad…” Lars’ voice weakened. “H-help…”

“Nine…”

The world faded into blissful darkness.

* * *

“They don’t normally stay awake until nine, boy, if that means anything.”

For what felt like the umpteenth time, Lars awoke.

The room was the furthest cry possible from the sterile, white-walled base he’d been in previously. It was dark and dank, lit only by a flickering light on the roof, water dripping from a moss-covered ceiling. The walls were made of granite, covered liberally with leaves and ivy, and there were two damp rags on the floor - clearly intended to be beds. He felt his forearm stinging, and slowly sat up to look at it.

The skin was still tender, but he could see the logo burned into his flesh - an ornate A on top of a T, the latter overlapping the bottom of the former. He prodded the wound with his finger, and immediately drew back from the sudden flash of pain.

His pirate uniform was gone, his chest bare. The air was hot and humid, and he could see his pink skin glisten with sweat. He felt nausea sweeping over him.

Justinian sat next to him, his expression unreadable. His cloak was gone, revealing a bare, emancipated chest. The same brand was burnt onto his skin.

“Wh-where am I?” Lars asked.

“Below,” replied Justinian. “Where men go to die.”

“Might wanna work on the tourist brochure,” muttered Lars.

Justinian thinned his lips.

“You fight tomorrow, boy,” he said. “General Belisarius Thrax is visiting the garrison on an official inspection from Koros. He and Aurelian are old friends… and rivals in the colosseum.”

He stood up.

“Up, boy,” he snapped. “If you want to live, you’d best learn to fight.”

“I… I don’t want to kill anyone,” replied Lars.

Justinian grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up with strength that belied his weak-looking form.

“Your friend, the… Padparadscha,” he said. “Aurelian has her now, so let me rephrase what I just said.”

He looked him straight in the eye.

“If you want _her_ to live, you’d best learn to fight.”

Lars’ blood ran cold.


End file.
